


Weight of Human Weakness

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Fourth Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2005-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn keeps a ceaseless vigil... waiting for the one whom all believe shall never return... Chapter 4 updated: "The Plan" and otherwise uneventful ride to Emyl Arnen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The air smelled of the rain. Heavy clouds were in the West; drooping low upon the shoulders of the Misty Mountains, they spoke of the storm that raged over the Ford of Isen. The wind was getting stronger. Tearing over the Rohan capital, Edoras, it threatened approaching torrent. A lone figure stood atop of the Golden Hall, glinting defiantly in the gathering darkness. The sunset was swift, yet the change in light was almost imperceptible, so thick a gloom lay upon the Westfold. Coldness crept upon the silent world, stifling the breath, icing over the heart. Yet, the figure continued its unperturbed vigil, eyes swiftly roving across the plains. The night has almost but fallen, and the bitter wind lashed against the mighty seat of the House of Èorl when the figure showed first signs of faltering and shivered.

Out from the deeper shadows of the doorway arch, taller and heavier figure emerged, wrapped in a thick cloak and carrying another one, darker in colour, yet of a superior make. His approach was quiet, utterly lost were the sounds of his footsteps in the whistling wind, yet his advance was known well before he moved at all. Unfolding the mantle, he was just about to wrap it around the shoulders of the vigilante, when the clear voice cut through the rumble of the approaching storm like a sharp blade though soft flesh.

“I do not need the cloak, Èomer, for this cold cannot compare with the chill in my heart.”

He stepped up, carefully placed the cloth around her light frame, and stood next to her for a while, neither of them speaking. It began to rain; first drops were far and few between, merely damping the stonework.

“Let us go in. If there is any word, the King will send his messengers without delay,” he said and placed his hand upon her shoulder, trying to gently stir her towards fire and rest.

She did not move. The drizzle had now turned into a full – blown gale and her words were barely audible through the turmoil.

“He will come back. He will return… He is strong, he shall fight the darkness…” she turned to his brother, her face steeled against the terrible possibilities which played themselves in her mind, every day, ay, every second of his absence.

The young King of Rohan looked upon the woman who stood unflinching before the Nazgúl, the brave shieldmaiden who slayed the Witchking of Angmar and his great beast, and he felt her fear. It exuded through the look in her eyes, the way corners of her lips fell ever so slightly when she spoke of his return, the clench of her fists as she held them by her side. _The fearless had become the fearful._ Tiny drops of water clung to her eyelashes and he was not sure if it was the rain, which beat mercilessly upon them, or her tears. He pulled her close, and drawing the hood over the golden head, he listened to her quiet sobs.

In his mind, he knew that chances of Faramir’s return were small, yet he fought to keep the faith, to believe in the unbelievable, to hope even though he had no hope left. The War of the Ring taught him that valuable lesson. He thought the world was lost to the Shadow, yet the morning came, and the light, and the lost King of Gondor.

“Faramir is a warrior… greater than he believes himself to be. He shall survive. He will come back to you, Èowyn. Your husband will find his way home.”

Deep underneath the starry mantle, Èowyn winced in pain. She wanted to believe her brother, but the aching of her heart told a different story…


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn keeps a ceaseless vigil... waiting for the one whom all believe shall never return... Chapter 4 updated: "The Plan" and otherwise uneventful ride to Emyl Arnen.

Sunlight streamed through the window and the keen, crisp air rushed into the chamber, bringing with it the scent of damp grasslands and the promise of fair - weathered morning. Éomer muttered something in his sleep, which sounded strangely like “never saw a prettier lass…” and pulling the cloak faster around him, tried to shift to a more comfortable position. Yet, when the sound of light footsteps shuffled very close by, he sprang from the chair, his hand lightening upon the belt in a vain search of his sword, as bleary – eyed, he searched the room for Orcs, in the true fashion of a Rider who spent all his life at the warfront. His search, however, failed to reveal any immediate danger, and his eyes, instead upon the hideous Orc figure, fell upon that of a very young, and indeed quite sweet – faced chambermaid, who stood near the open window, giggling softly. At first, quite confused as to the source of her mirth, he turned again to look around the room, but once more failed to find anything amiss or even untidy, with the slight exception of his own dishevelled self.

Only when his neck started to ache rather uncomfortably did he look down upon his improvised sleeping place, and noticed a small sheet of parchment, partly unfolded and filled with female handwriting. Realizing it must have been placed in his lap while he slept, most likely with the intention of having him read it as soon as he woke up, he bent down to grasp it. The young maid, tragically inept in the court’s etiquette, and too amused with her own speculations at to the origin of the letter to be observant of the standard protocol, started to laugh much too audibly. The King, who at any other time, would not mind in the slightest listening to the pretty girl’s laugh, correctly interpreted the reason for her enjoyment, and annoyed, promptly sent her away.

It was enough that the entire court gossiped about his enchantment with the young Lady of Dol Amroth; he would not abide hearing tales of how their King spent his nights reading letters from mysterious maidens. Éomer sat down again, rubbing his eyes, and trying to recall just how he spent the past night.  


After the mighty gale forced them to retreat to the Hall for the night, he succeeded in drawing Éowyn towards the tiny chamber at the back of the house, overlooking the garden, which sloped sharply down the slope, then rose at the anchor of the mountain roots. It was largely neglected as a place of residence, due to the unfortunate fact of never getting enough sunlight, except for a short time in the early morning, and that was a lovely time indeed, as Éomer confirmed, looking out of the window. The room was dear to him for another reason; at a very young age, he would sit there with his mother, and she would tell him tales of the great Riders, his own father featuring rather prominently in many of them, as she cuddled a tiny bundle in her arms.

After becoming the King, he ordered the chamber made comfortable again, with fire burning at all times, and that bit of unconscious foresight served him well last night. Éomer helped his sister settle near the fire, removing their cloaks to dry and waiting for her to begin… He did not quite know what he expected her to begin. Perhaps he expected she would talk to him about Faramir, about everything she has been through since he went away, he would not even have been surprised if she talked to him about the War, about that fatal battle leading to events which changed her life forever, but none of that happened.

She stopped crying, and just sat silently, staring into the fire. At length, he gathered he would have to start the conversation, but as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, she began with the request that left his mind reeling.

“Promise me, brother, that when your daughter is born, you will _not_ bring her up as a shieldmaiden.”


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn keeps a ceaseless vigil... waiting for the one whom all believe shall never return... Chapter 4 updated: "The Plan" and otherwise uneventful ride to Emyl Arnen.

Éomer looked down upon the page folded between his fingers. The paper was stiff, brilliantly white, without a trace of yellowness that usually bore testimony to its old age. Half of the sheet was covered with strong, yet graceful handwriting, steadily flowing from sentence to sentence, no sign of lingering or hesitation was there; and it was clear to Éomer that his sister had everything thought out in advance.

But his eyes had not strayed to her words immediately, as his look was drawn towards the device engraved upon the blank side of the paper. _Green shield and white horn, cloven in two._ Emblems of the Lord and Lady of Emyl Arnen. A new coat of arms for the House of Stewards, reborn out of blood and ashes.  
  
Although the young King saw it for the first time not even a full year ago, he had come to know its design well. It was one of Faramir’s many wedding gifts for Éowyn, and Éomer had to admit that the man had good taste when it came to matters of heraldry. _“And other things,”_ Éomer reminded himself softly.

Faramir had come to him and Aragorn for their advice and consult on the design. He said it was to honour the past, both people and their deeds, but also to be a reminder that those days are over and that only future held true promise. The green shield for the Lady of the Shield-arm, the name Rohirrim gave to their beloved Éowyn, and the cloven white horn for the one who had fallen, but will always be remembered. For their courage, their love for their peoples and for the memories of what was, and is, and shall ever be.

 

Éomer sighed and shuddered. The memory of that day was all too near. Blood and darkness and the sound of clashing steel. The day he believed he lost everyone he ever loved. The day he became the King.

He walked over to the window and looked upon the great mountains, towering high above Edoras. Rays of sunlight were striking against the snow and reflecting back in all their terrible brightness.

The Shadow had departed.

It was time he found out the mind of his sister.

 

 

_“My beloved brother,_

_We talked much last night, and yet I believe you did not understand me as clearly as I wanted you to. The years of silence have made me more difficult to comprehend, I am afraid, and that is what this letter hopes to mend._

_I am leaving the House of Éorl once again, my brother, and for this kind of leave – taking, I ask your forgiveness. It is almost four months since he left, and two since the last tidings reached me. Ever since I stood upon the steps of the Golden Hall, empty plains stretching before me, barren of the sight I long for - my husband’s return. Every time I close my eyes, in my mind I go back in time, always waiting… first for our father, then Théoden King, then you, my brother._

_’Tis a fate worse than death, waiting until all those you love have perished and there is nothing but darkness. I can wait no longer. My heart and soul are ever with Faramir, and my body shall merely follow their path. I have not spoken of this to you before, because you would have tried to stop me…”_

“Damn right I would!” growled Éomer, already tightening the belt with one hand, and upholding the letter with another.

_“… and that I could not have allowed to anyone, not even my brother, the King. Bear me no ill will, Éomer, for doing what I must do. By the time you read this letter, I will already be far upon my way. Do not follow me, I beg you. The war is over, but Rohan is still vulnerable to the attack both by the scattered bands of Orcs and foreign armies of Mordor, however broken they may be. Our people need you more than I. It will comfort you to know that I do not go alone, because Beregond of the White Guard follows me like a child follows his mother… by Faramir’s orders, no doubt.”_

“It doesn’t comfort me. Not at all! Beregond? What does he know of trailing the enemy in a land he has never seen?” he muttered, pulling on his boots, and yelling for his guard.

_“Not so long ago, I went searching for death, and instead I found a man who gave me life I never believed I could have. All I could give him in return was my love… but now I have a chance to reclaim his life, and I shall not fail. Have faith, my brother._

Your sister, Éowyn, Éomund’s daughter.”

 

Éomer looked up from the letter as the door opened to admit a thin, lanky individual who stood quietly awaiting orders. “Halas, my horse! Hurry, for I have a great need of haste.”


	4. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn keeps a ceaseless vigil... waiting for the one whom all believe shall never return... Chapter 4 updated: "The Plan" and otherwise uneventful ride to Emyl Arnen.

Sun was setting behind the great Mindoluin and the last rays of fading light fell upon the pinnacle of the White Tower, the brightest spear of a kingdom reborn on its way to reclaim the old glory. Two riders closely followed the river, winding its way down into the southern lands. They kept away from the wall of the City, whose shadow now covered much of the Pelennor Fields and moved ever towards the East and the dreaded mountains of the past. And while the foremost rider pressed onward hard, urging the horse to greater speed with quiet words in a strange, harsh - sounding language, the other kept looking toward the City, as if eager to change course and ride to Minas Tirith. At length, just when their path led them directly opposite to the great gate, and the leader showed no signs of halting, he decided to speak out.

“My lady, we are almost past the Gate. Are we not to enter the City and seek help?” Beregond’s voice was muffled by the rising wind, and as he got no answer in return, he ventured another try. “My lady, the gate…”

“Our help must be in our secrecy and speed. No one must know, Beregond. Although, I dare say they shall find out soon enough,” she sighed, and slowing the horse, allowed Beregond to catch up and ride at her side. “The King would try to prevent this attempt, seeing as all others have failed as well,” her voice faltered, and Beregond again turned to look to the City, wishing there was a way of both informing the King and not betraying her Lady’s trust. He knew her words echoed the truth, yet he feared Lady Éowyn’s heart had conquered her mind. Two people could never hope to cross the lands to Haradrim territory undetected and attempt the rescue of a man of whose whereabouts they knew nothing about. It was preposterous to believe it would ever succeed!

When finally he managed to draw his eyes away from the place he hoped to get the help from, he saw Lady’s face and almost fell of his horse in an uncharacteristic display of surprise. Her hood was thrown back, and although her hair was tightly bound, still enough sunlight lingered to light up fair strands into melting gold. But it was not her beauty that left Beregond staggered. The young woman was smiling. She had not smiled for many a day, ever since she heard of Faramir’s disappearance. Her eyes were lighted with an inner fire, and he had heard enough tales and songs of her deeds to know that fell mood was upon her once again. He shuddered, thinking that if his feelings had not led him astray, he was now riding with one who would either find Faramir or find death, but would not give up until one of those two had come to pass.

“We will rest in Emyl Arnen, and with the first light tomorrow we must leave. The King will have found out about this before noon, and we must ride hard if we are to lose Gondorians we shall have on our heels as soon as Aragorn can muster them,” she chuckled, and Beregond, clasping hard upon the reins wondered at the events of this evening, and mused at the punishment he would get if the King’s riders proved the faster.


End file.
